


Meant to Be, Or Not

by imaginarycircus



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarycircus/pseuds/imaginarycircus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from <a href="http://gordhgeous.tumblr.com/post/44552442085/i-noticed-your-face-changed-when-charlotte">here</a>. Lizzie's face takes on a pained expression in Ep. 93 when Charlotte fills in Lizzie's blank with, "Chemistry. Heat. Tension." Maybe she left more than one kind of unfinished business at Pemberley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Smell of Hot Toner is Going to Haunt Them Both

It's late and Lizzie's phone is toast so she can't snap a photo of the hardcopy that Finance let her borrow. She doesn't have access to a scanner. She darts up to the fourth floor, which always makes her nervous because the executive offices are on that floor, but so is the only copier that doesn't require an access code.

She runs down the hall from the elevator and closes herself into the tiny room, which smells like burning powder, and gusts out a sigh of relief. There are twenty-four pages to be copied and she's rushing, tapping her fingers on the edge of the grayish-beige copier. All the pages come out copied at a jaunty angle. She's about half way through when the door opens and someone clears his throat. Twice.

She can tell from the the throat clear who it is. She closes her eyes and drops her head for a second before saying, "Uh, I'll be out of your way in a just one sec."

She doesn't turn around. The room is very small. Darcy closes the door and the air behind her grows thick and staticky. He's standing a little too close and yet not as close as she'd like.

He breathes on her neck as he peers over her shoulder to see what she's copying. She's afraid to move, growing more light headed with each shallow breath. The machine emits an almighty clunk and Lizzie makes fists. She'd punch the stupid copier if it wasn't an asinine thing to do.

She's not really sure how to get the crumpled up paper out of its innards, or where it is. It takes her a moment, a long one, for the little diagram on the readout to sink in. It's telling her where the jam is. Area three. What the crap is area three? She can't think properly with Darcy looming over her. If she moved back and inch or two she'd be pressed against him and she cuts that thought off at the pass.

"I'm so sorry." Lizzie yanks open the plastic doors and stares dumbly at all the rollers and slots.

"This machine has been acting up. I think it's time to have it serviced." He doesn't sound casual. He sounds like he just stepped on a tack.

Lizzie is on her knees and Darcy squats down beside her. He doesn't exactly knock her hands aside, but he reaches in and tilts a lever, revealing the accordioned sheet of paper. She grabs it and stands up because Darcy is too close and she likes it too much and it would be totally unprofessional to do anything to him, er with him.

Her face hurts from the stilted smile she can't release and her hands are like a Siberian steppe. Darcy methodically closes up the copier and stands. He's not looking at her, but she can see something building up under the surface, something frantically trying to break through his reserve. She knows what it is and she knows the slightest tap from her would do the trick.

"I'll... " Darcy shakes his head stiffly and turns for the door.

It's like a reflex. She grabs his arm and pulls him back. He yields and ends up very close, searching her face for something--for a sign.

She can't say what she wants. It's too big to squeeze into mere words. She's backed against the copier and it's warm. Darcy is also warm. That's surely why her bones feel soft and unsteady.

She nods. It's the best she can do. She expects him to take a moment, but he doesn't. He dives for her. His mouth reaches her before his hands land on her shoulders. They glide up her neck to cradle her head. The kiss doesn't break after a minute. There's no pause for breath. No moment to check in. It's all free fall.

Her brain is offline, but her body is delighted and hyper aware of everything, the location of each of Darcy's fingers, the way he has to bend to accommodate their height differential, the changing pressure of his lips, the swipe of his tongue along her bottom lip, the taste of him--mint and tea, the weakness in her knees, the ache that comes from her center and radiates out to her extremities. Her fingers twitch at her sides. Oh. She can touch him. She's allowed now.

She winds her arms around him and tips him closer, his weight settling more heavily upon her. The copier gives against the pressure and smacks up against the wall. They move with it, using it as ballast.

Their hands are furious, possessed. Lizzie needs to touch his skin. Want. Need. Hard to tell the difference. She untucks enough of his button down to slide her hands up his spine. He pauses for a fraction of a second, lips still but pressed against hers. Common sense tries to cut in. She should stop this. She should at least ask him what they're doing. And also here? Really? In the copier room? Where anyone could walk in?

She revives the kiss instead, using her tongue to taste him and make it clear that she wants this. She digs her fingers into his hips. He pushes against her over and over and the friction is not enough. There are too many barriers--too much fabric.

She's always been slow and cautious about sex, but she's never had her body spark and burn like this before. She thought it was an exaggeration--something that happened in romance novels and movies. Another thing she was wrong about.

He's obviously sick of stooping because he seizes her waist and lifts her onto the copier, standing between her legs. His eyes are bright.

"Lizzie." He's breathless. "Are you sure?"

Words are scary and powerful and make things real, but they're also necessary. She knows a nod is not enough. "Yes."

They should probably have a talk before they proceed, but Lizzie can wrap her arms tightly around his neck now, get her hands in his hair. She knows they should at least have the basic pre-sex talk. She doesn't forget, but she sort of doesn't care. She should, but she doesn't.

It's a struggle to get his tie off and the top of his shirt undone while he's kissing her neck and shoulders. She shucks off her cardigan, shedding a bracelet in the melée, while he trails his fingers up and down her bare arms. Something as simple as that shouldn't feel so good. It's kind of obscene and she worries that when he touches other, more sensitive places that she'll keel right over. At least she'll die happy.

She doesn't. Die, that is. He places one hand on the small of her back to bring her against him although they can't really get any closer unless they take off their clothes. His other hand ghosts over her breast timidly, uncertainly. She tilts her head back and sighs. It's almost a moan. It has potential. She's never been vocal--always too self conscious about it. Once again she really doesn't care. His hands are firm now that he's sure of their welcome. She bites his neck--not completely on purpose when he rolls her nipple between his fingers.

His shirt has to go. She gets it caught on his wrists because she's forgotten to unfasten the cuffs. They laugh into their kisses. Darcy is too impatient and flicks open the cuffs. Voila--shirt gone.

She drags her nails up his sides and he retaliates by pushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders and kissing his way down her breast bone, which she encourages with her hand threaded through his hair. She's glad she wore nice underwear today--a matched pale pink set.

Darcy is stymied when he finds the unbroken band at the back of her bra. She taps the hook in her cleavage.

"I didn't know that they came this way," Darcy says, unfastening the hook and parting the satin fabric. The expression on his face is too much. It's like staring into the sun, but then he reached for her--palms against flesh, and she might as well be blind. The world melts away and everything is touch.

This time she does moan against his shoulder. She runs her thumbs up and down the blades of his hips, memorizing their contour before grappling with his belt.

He makes a little noise when she flicks her tongue over his pulse point. She does it again and he glides his hands up her thighs. She goes for the button on his trousers at the same time that he hooks his fingers into her underwear.

The door creaks opens and they freeze. Darcy does his best to shield her from view.

"Oh!" The door slams closed and they're alone. The humming of the lights and the copier is super loud all of a sudden.

Darcy closes his eyes--his ears as red as his cheeks. "Cleaning staff."

"Oh, God." Lizzie covers her face with her hands--her arms shielding her breasts. "We shouldn't be doing this here."

"Lizzie. Come home with me." His breath stirs her hair, he's that close to her ear.

"Darcy, I'm sorry. I can't do this." She hurries to right her clothes, but he doesn't move. He's got his arms on either side of her legs, caging her there. "Darcy..." 

"No. I understand." He picks up his shirt and buttons it crookedly. He's out the door before she can say, "I don't think you do."

Perhaps it's better this way. She's not sure what she feels for him, besides the need to fuck him so badly she'd do it on a copier at Pemberley.

She hops to the floor, locking her knees so she doesn't fall over. All of her is raw and strained, like her skin doesn't fit her anymore. She straightens her dress and puts her shoes back on before hurrying to look for him. His office is dark; he's nowhere to be found. It's a sign--an omen. She's leaving San Francisco soon. Her future is uncertain. She doesn't want to hurt him anymore than she already has. She doesn't want to make him think that she cares, at least until she's sure she does--that she can match his ardor equally. She doesn't want to be the woman who breaks William Darcy twice.

***

The next day is awkward, but it's clear that Darcy doesn't want to talk about it. Lizzie doesn't either--not really. It hurts, but somethings just aren't meant to be. She can't focus on work and when she finally wrestles her wayward thoughts into order--she realizes she left the report in the copy room.

She returns to the scene of the crime. No one sees her. Her copies and the original are neatly stacked on the top of the box of copier paper off to the side. When she bends down to pick them up she spots her bracelet on the floor. Her stomach jumps as if she's been caught shoplifting or speeding or cheating on an exam. She finishes her copying, willing her fingers to stop shaking. When she 's done she taps the papers into perfect order and waits a moment, but no one comes into the room behind her. The air is still electrically charged. She wonders if other people can feel it when they come in here? Like some sex phantom is haunting the copy room.

The rest of the day drags. Her phone is being old and cranky. She makes a mental note to stop at the store on her way home to see what they can offer her. It'll eat up some of the time she has to spend alone in the apartment with her thoughts rattling around in her brain so violently she can't sit still. She cleaned the bathroom grout with a tooth brush last night. She can do the back splash in the kitchen tonight if it gets bad. She'll stop and buy a couple of cheap tooth brushes tonight as well.


	2. Let's Try That Again

She knows. She's known for a while. She had to admit it to him (and the internet at large) in order to admit to herself. Lizzie Bennet is madly in love with William Darcy. Everyone knows that. Most importantly--William knows and Lizzie knows.

They've been on one date. It lasted thirty-two hours. They ate three meals and a jar of nutella with a box of water crackers they found in the Netherfield pantry. They talked. They slept. They kept their clothes on and kisses had been sweet. Lizzie had never seen Darcy smile so much or so widely. That had been a week ago. She's on a plane right now. The man next to her won't stop sighing and staring at his powered down cellphone and it's working her last nerve. She wonders if she's turning into her mother. Will Darcy still love her if she turns into her mother?

GiGi meets her at passenger pick-up, hugs the crap out of her, and kisses her on both cheeks like they're French. Darcy is stuck in meetings and apologized like thirty times on the phone until Lizzie threatens not to visit if he apologizes again. GiGi talks a mile a minute and Lizzie is too keyed up to take in a single word. She starts when GiGi pulls into parking space at her apartment. She insists on carrying Lizzie's bag inside. Lizzie trails behind her in haze of surreality. The elevator is so pristine that Lizzie smudges a finger print on it just to make sure it's corporeal. "Lizzie? Earth to Lizzie." GiGi pokes her. "Sorry. Uh, jet lag." GiGi doesn't call her on that piece of bullshit. "Anyway. As I said, twice, I'm really glad you're here. You're good for him." Turns out the twenty-second floor is the top floor. The entire top floor. The elevator opens directly into the apartment. There's a key card.

Lizzie thought she was prepared for this. She steps off the elevator and feels instantly dizzy--it's the height of the ceilings--or maybe all the windows. The apartment is not like a regular people apartment. It's not even like Netherfield. It's like Architectual Digest and Better Homes and Gardens had a spectacularly gorgeous baby. She's afraid to breathe or touch anything for fear of leaving smudges and she regrets that one in the elevator. GiGi drops her keys onto the kitchen counter--some kind of gray stone Lizzie can't identify. (If someone were asking for common tropes in 18th century novels, she'd be first with her hand in the air. Kitchen design is not her bailiwick.)

"Hey. Are you staying with William? Or in the guest room?" GiGi says, as if she's asking it Lizzie wants still or sparkling water. "I don't know." Lizzie flails a little bit. "Would you like a glass of water? We have still and sparkling." Lizzie's insides feel carbonated already; she chooses still water with ice and lemon. GiGi leaves the kitchen, mystifying Lizzie, until she steps out onto an enormous terrace and plucks a fresh lemon from a tree. It's a little too much on top of already too much and Lizzie totters over to the sofa. It looks modern and hard, but it's actually pretty comfortable. The Bennets have a lemon tree in their yard, but it's not growing on a large terrace in the middle of a city in an apartment that could put at least two dozen kids through Sarah Lawrence.

They sip their water, ice cubes clinking, until GiGi turns to her. "I know I'm being nosy, but you don't know where you want to sleep?"

"No. I really don't." Lizzie sets her glass carefully on the slate coaster, centering it, and stares at her knees. She hates not knowing what she wants. She hates not knowing in general, but this is like not-knowing-Purgatory.

"So you guys haven't--" GiGi clears her throat delicately and busies herself lifting a lemon pip out of her water.

Lizzie shakes her head. They haven't. Copy room antics, aside. She scrapes her itchy palms up and down her worn jeans. It doesn't help at all.

"But you want to?" GiGi sounds unsure. She cocks her head to one side.

"Yes!" Lizzie doesn't mean to yell. But oh how she wants. The ache in her body has become permanent. She doesn't know why they were so restrained and polite at Netherfield last week. She suspects they were both nervous about crossing more than one major boundary at a time. Considering their history and the depth of their feelings that was probably not a bad thing. Her brain accepts that; her body does not. If she could crawl right out of her own skin right this minute, she would not look back.

GiGi tucks her hair behind her ear and says, "Do you have a plan?"

"No. Should I?" It hadn't occurred to Lizzie to plan this. Wasn't this sort of thing supposed to be spontaneous? Darcy was so damn hard to read and so polite. "Oh, God. He's not waiting until marriage is he?" Should she be asking his little sister that?

"I doubt it. He changed his sheets this morning. Twice." GiGi is smug and amused and Lizzie would really like to hit her with one of the pillows, except the couch doesn't have any.

"Twice?" Why would anyone change their sheets twice?"

"He said your feet get cold and he thought flannel would be warmer than percale." GiGi has reached level of smugness that are causing her to nearly sing her words.

"So he's expecting me to..." sleep with him.

"Oh, no. No. Not necessarily. He put flannel sheets in the guest room too." GiGi waves for Lizzie to follow her. "Behind door number one we have the guest room." GiGi sweeps Lizzie into a large blue room with a stunning view and a big pillowy bed. There's a vase of fat purple irises on the bed side table next to a pile of books, but there are no other personal items. Very definitely the guest room. GiGi grabs Lizzie's hand and tugs her to a room down the hall. "Door number two."

This room is his. She breaks out in gooseflesh before she even steps over the threshold. The room is gray, it's a quiet color--not cold, not an icy shade. It's as neat as she'd expected, and it smells right--like him, but not him. On the dresser there's a large vase containing at least two dozen roses. Deep, velvety red--each flower the size of her palm.

"So if I stay in the other room I get irises, but if I stay in here I get roses?" Lizzie sounds incredulous, because she is.

"I told him he was being too obvious." GiGi is leaning in the doorway looking like a cat bloated on canaries.

Lizzie brushes a finger against one of the roses. They're about half blown, not fully open, but on their way. "What did he say to that?"

"He just smiled. He can be a bit devious when he wants something. Most people don't know that." GiGi smiles and asks, "So door number one, or door number two?"

Lizzie closes her eyes tight and says, "Two."

"YAY!" GiGi rushes her and hugs her really hard. That might be a slightly odd reaction for a sister to exhibit when you tell her you're going to sleep with her older brother, but GiGi has been trying to push them together for so long--it sort of makes sense. GiGi pulls back and grips Lizzie's shoulders. "And you totally don't have to worry about me. I'm having a sleepover with Fitz and Brandon. We're going to watch Lord of the Rings and make red velvet cupcakes. Brandon dresses up like Elrond and everything."

"Oh. No. You don't... uh." Lizzie feels weird about kicking GiGi out of her home. She's also kind of relieved there won't be an audience.

"I do. I totally have to vacate the premises." GiGi leaves the bedroom and returns with Lizzie's overnight bag. She sets it on the blanket chest at the end of Darcy's bed and checks her phone, her thumb flicking across the screen. "William wants me to bring you by the office. He says you need to wrap up some unfinished business. HR needs you to complete an exit interview. Then he's taking you to dinner. Ooo!"

"What?"

"It's a surprise." GiGi tucks her phone away. On the way to Pemberley, GiGi fills Lizzie in on the details of her new project with Domino and Lizzie tries very hard to pay attention and ask relevant questions, but shes is distracted. Nervous. Excited. The closer they get to Pemberley the more nervous edges out excited. What if he sees her and changes his mind? What if she takes one look at him and doesn't feel anything? What if--no. She refuses to let her thoughts venture any farther down that path. She loves him and she's going to see him soon. Her toes grow sweaty and slip around in her flats. She feels like she tried to swallow an ostrich egg whole.

Lizzie, breathe. GiGi tows Lizzie into the building. Georgiana Darcy: tug boat.

GiGi squeezes her hand affectionately in the elevator, which she probably does because Lizzie imagines she looks like she's about to swoon. She's just really, really pale. All the time.

Mrs. Reynolds is on the phone, but waves them into Darcy's office with a smile. He's also on the phone and she thinks he maybe hung up on someone because she didn't hear him say goodbye. She can't actually hear anything over the sound of her own breathing, which people can probably hear all the way over in Chinatown. They meet in the middle of the room and collide. Lizzie is floating, but no. He's lifted her a bit off the ground. She hears the door click behind her, which means GiGi's gone. She'll thank her later. Right now she's too busy letting her hands and mouth catch up with solid reality.

"I thought you'd never get here," he says into her hair. He kisses the top of her head and then both cheeks, which makes her laugh. He kisses her through her laughter.

"Have you all turned French since I left?" She explains when William wrinkles up his brow. "GiGi kissed me the same way at the airport--on both cheeks."

He just smiles down at her until she clutches the collar of his shirt and pulls him down to her level. They jump apart when there's a knock at the door. Mrs. Reynolds has several urgent issues to discuss. Lizzie stands at the window and presses her knuckles against the cool glass. If she were alone she might press her fevered cheeks against it too. Apparently, the gloves are off. Whatever restraint they'd self imposed at Netherfield is gone. She could tell by the way he touched her--he wasn't holding back a thing. It's odd how things can be both terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

"Lizzie." Darcy sets a hand on one of her shoulders. "Claire will take you over to HR. Will you meet me back here in an hour?"

She nods and follows Mrs. Reynolds, whom she can't really think of as 'Claire', down a series of hallways. If Mrs. Reynolds knows what's up between Lizzie and her boss she doesn't let on. She's quiet. Polite. Grandmotherly, but elegant, in her tailored suit and alligator heels. Darcy must pay her pretty well, which _of course he does. _Darcy. Lizzie should probably figure out something else to call him. William? Still too formal. Wills? Too Prince of Walesy. Will? Maybe. Willy? Definitely not. Bill? Nope. Maybe he has a middle name.__

Mrs. Claire Reynolds leaves Lizzie with Nora and smiles at her as she's leaving--it's the smile of someone who knows a secret and approves. Lizzie is a little embarrassed, but also pleased that Darcy, er William, what's-his-face would share something like that with his assistant. She knew she was theoretically important to him, but this adds mass and weight.

Nora's questions are easy. There's a short portion that she records with a camera. but Lizzie is used to cameras. She's done in fewer than thirty minutes. She can't exactly stretch out a three minute walk back to Darcy's office to last thirty minutes. There's a break room with tea around the corner--she can waste some time there. She passes _the_ copy room on the way. She reaches for the door, but drops her hand and makes herself continue on her way. It's just a copy room. The break room is empty. She attempts to check her email, but her brain and fingers don't seem to be connected.

Here's the thing. It's not just a copy room. It's a landmark. It's the place she first knew she had feelings of unknown depth for Darcy. Something beyond a spark of lust. That spark is a barely contained forest fire at present. She skips the tea. She doesn't need any more heat in her body. When the hour is up, she waits two more minutes for good measure and then taps out a text. Darcy's not the only one who can be a bit devious. She closes herself in the copy room and that smell of hot toner is disturbingly arousing. She presses her thighs together and attempts to breathe normally.

He arrives out of breath and she's pretty sure he ran there, which makes her smile in a way she suspects is totally goofy. She keeps her back to him, both her hands planted on the copy machine. He sweeps her hair to the side and whispers, "Revisiting the scene of the crime?"

Lizzie turns around. He grips the edge of the copier on either side of her, caging her in. The heat in his gaze could strip tar off boats. She licks her lips because they're dry and she realizes how that probably reads to him. Well, good. Let him ache and burn too. She doesn't want to do that alone. Belatedly, it does occur to her that he has been doing that alone for some time. In penance she kisses him and the moment it starts to bloom beyond a kiss, Darcy pulls away.

"It's still office hours. We can't--"

"I know. I just had to kiss you." That earns her one of his blazing smiles and she promises herself she'll try very hard not to fail him, try not to screw this up. She wants to be good for him, wants them to be good for each other. "Last time we were, um, in here. You asked me something. I think you should ask again."

It takes him several puzzled seconds, but then he latches on. "Lizzie Bennet." He cups her face in his hands. "Will you please come home with me?"

"Yes." She almost adds--'I have to. I have nowhere else to sleep', but she doesn't want to ruin the moment by being a smart ass. "Oh, but dinner. Don't you have some sort of mysterious plans."

He kisses her and says, "I do."

She feels like they just got pseudo-married. Cart ahead of horse. Cart like light-years ahead of horse.

"You're not going to tell me anything," Lizzie says. "Because then it wouldn't be a surprise. Right."

Darcy shrugs and they leave the building together. Lizzie is trying to maintain a respectable distance, but Darcy grabs her hand and it's his company. If he wants people to know--that's all right with her. People do notice. Lizzie counts the double takes, but they all look different shades of amused on that second look.

On the drive back to the apartment, she broaches the name conundrum. "What am I going to call you?"

"What do you want to call me?" He shifts smoothly into third gear. She likes that he can drive standard shift. Her father taught her and now she feels like she has no control over the car if she has to drive an automatic.

"It seems weird to keep calling you Darcy. It makes it sound like we're on the same Lacrosse team or something."

"I was a diver. Never played Lacrosse."

That gives her some exciting visuals and she tears her eyes away from his shoulders to concentrate. "William is a little too formal and it's what GiGi calls you, but if it's what you prefer..."

"I'd prefer that you were comfortable, Lizzie." They've reached the parking garage in the basement of his building.

"How about Billy?" Lizzie can barely keep a straight face. He looks nonplussed.

"I have bad associations with that particular moniker." He's gone all stiff. He pulls the parking brake up forcefully. They must be some really bad associations. She scoots out of the car before he can reach her side. She'd like to get out of cars under her own steam sometimes, but it'll probably be nice to have him there if she's ever in super high heels. They step into the elevator and he's not looking at her. Whatever nerve she touched--she'll have to ask about later. This is not the moment.

She touches his cheek. "I was kidding. What about Darvid?"

He thaws a little. "Now, I know you're kidding."

"I think I'm just going to call you Will until I think up some atrocious pet name for you." His cheek is stubble-rough. She likes the way it catches against her palm.

The starch goes out of his spine a little. He kisses her palm and the underside of her wrist. The elevator doors open and there's a woman standing in the kitchen. She's wearing chef's whites and she's cooking something that smells like happiness. Lizzie hasn't eaten and thinks the bag containing four almonds that they gave her on the plane doesn't really count. Darcy--no, Will. Slides his arm around her waist and guides her into the room. She thought maybe he was going to cook her dinner. She wasn't expecting a personal chef. A really pretty, dark-haired personal chef who is chopping onions so quickly that the blade is a blur.

"Guillame, ça va?" The woman kisses him on both cheeks and Lizzie understands where that gesture came from and why Will didn't explain. How often do they have a chef in to cook for them? The Lee's had one almost all the time. Will and the chef break into rapid French that Lizzie can't follow. Those two years of high school French were a while ago. She picks out the words for 'champagne' and 'lobster' and maybe also 'armchair?' No, that can't be right.

"Lizzie--this is Sylvie. She's the most talented chef I know." Will slides his arm around Lizzie's shoulders. "Sylvie, this is Lizzie, she's my..." He glances at Lizzie, mouth half open.

She nods to indicate that he can go ahead and let the word out.

"... girlfriend." He says it with such pride--it's heartbreaking and she really doesn't deserve it. She'll try to though.

Sylvie kisses Lizzie on both cheeks and says her name in a delightfully French way that makes Lizzie feel far more sophisticated that she really is. She pushes Darcy toward an icy bottle of champagne, which he opens carefully with a white cloth napkin--not sending the cork sailing off to knock out a light bulb as Lydia would have. (She hopes Lydia gets to visit here some day--because the sock slides would be epic.) Will pours three glasses and Sylvie toasts them and starts expertly tossing onions in a saute pan. It's like watching the Food Network, but better, because you can smell the food.

"Go. Be adorable. Dinner will be ready in twenty-three minutes." Sylvie sweeps her hands to shoo them across the room.

Glasses in hand, they step out onto the terrace, passing a table, which is beautifully set. Lizzie walks to the rail and tries to catch her breath. The building is not that tall, but her position feels precarious. She's still wearing her jeans. "Should I change?"

"Not unless you want to."

"Well, either I need to dress up or you need to dress down." She flicks a finger at his tie. He passes her his champagne glass and removes it.

"Actually, will you excuse me for a moment?" He waits politely for her to assent. She wonders what he'd do if she said, "No." She says 'yes,' of course.

Lizzie leans against the wide metal railing and attempts to let her brain catch up with her reality. Will and GiGi's apartment is gorgeous, but it's a mix of antiques and very modern pieces that might not work together, but do. That's a lot like its owner. Strangely old fashioned and formal, but the CEO for a cutting edge media firm. Now that she understands him better, she just wants to know more. She wants to know everything, but that's not going to happen instantly--and for that she is grateful, because she wants this thing between them to last as long as possible.

Will returns in his bare feet, his shirt untucked, top three buttons undone. He's wearing his glasses, which he knows make her want to grab him and muss him, because she told him that after two glasses of wine at Netherfield. He pulls something from his pocket. It takes a moment for her to focus on it in it. It's a small robin's egg blue box. She nearly drops her champagne glass. He must see the utter terror in her eyes, because he shakes his head. "No. Lizzie, It's not what you think. Give me some credit." He presses the box into her hands and she realizes it's too big to be a ring. It's the right size for earrings though.

"Will, you can't give me presents. It's too much."

He seems amused. "Lizzie. It's not what you think. Just open it."

She sets her glass on a nearby table and he's right. It's not what she thought. It's not jewelry. It's almost worse. Nestled in the small box are a set of keys on a silver ring engraved with her initials and a key card for the elevator.

"I don't want you to be trapped here. You should be able to come and go as you please. Don't look at me like that. I'm not asking you to live here." He smiles. "Yet."

Lizzie closes her eyes because it helps her think if she doesn't have to watch his expression for each tiny movement. "Will, you do realize that most of my first dates have consisted of beer and pizza. This is just a little over the top."

"You'll get used to it." He's wearing the same smug expression that GiGi sported earlier. Darcys show no mercy if they want to assimilate you like some super fancy Borg.

"No." She's clutching the keys and sets them and their box on the edge of the table near her glass.

"No?" He really doesn't like hearing no.

"Ground rules." She tucks her hair behind her ears.

"Ground rules?"

She raises an eyebrow because if he's just going to echo everything she says then this is going to take forever. "Rule number one. We're equals. I'm here with you because I love you and I want to spend time with you. You don't need to buy me things or have crazy over the top dinners catered by a private chef. I'm not comfortable with you spending lots of money on me."

"But I--"

"William Darcy--wait, do you have a middle name?" Has she really just interrupted herself in the middle of laying down the law? Yes. Yes she has.

Will blushes. Oh, this ought to be good.

"What is it?" She pulls on his arm, as if that will make him say it.

"You'll laugh."

"Very likely." Might as well be honest.

"Fitzwilliam." He squints off at the horizon.

"Shut up."

He glances back at her, eyebrows knitting together.

"Your parents did _not_ do that to you."

He nods, almost smiling, but not quite. "Family tradition. Darcy sons are always named after their father and their mother's maiden name becomes their middle name. My mother did try to convince my father to break tradition, but he was unyielding in the matter. It could have been worse. There was a Cecil Darcy Darcy at one point."

"That's awful. But back to my point. William Fitzwilliam Darcy, I want you to hear me. We are not going to have a relationship in which you steamroll me. Equal means we meet each other halfway as much as possible. We respect each others wishes. I will do my best to get used to this." She flaps a hand vaguely towards his apartment. "But I need you to give me time to do that."

"They're just keys," he says.

"Try and sell that one somewhere else." There's no real heat to her words, but she means them.

He laughs softly. "You're right. They're not just keys." He pulls her close. "This is one of the reasons I love you so much. When I push? You push back. You will never let me run roughshod over you. I couldn't respect someone who did."

"I get that, but it's probably not a good idea not to push all the time."

"Understood." He pulls her in closer, with his hands at the small of her back, so that there's no space between them. "Would you like to keep the keys for the rest of your visit? You can leave them here and just use them when you visit."

She looks over at the Tiffany's box. "Couldn't you have put them on a chrome ring from the hardware store?"

"No."

Six months ago she wouldn't have heard the wry humor under his commanding tone. Something else he said finally catches up to her. "Wait. What did you mean by 'yet'?"

The corner of his mouth kicks up, yielding a faint dimple. She wants to run her tongue over it and that's really not the right thing to be thinking while she's trying to be firm with him. "Lizzie, I'm not going to pretend that I don't know what I want. I can't lie about that. I have very definite hopes where you are concerned."

She knows he's about to kiss her senseless, and she wants him to, but she needs to say one last thing. "Just try to remember that you're a little ahead of me in all of this. You've had feelings and hopes for longer than I have. You also know who you are. You're older. You know what you're doing with your life. You know where you live. I only know that I love you and that this isn't a passing fancy, but I don't know any of those other things yet. Please be patient with me?"

"I'm not very adept at patience, but for you--I'll do my best." He kisses her and as expected, every thought in her head melts away. She backs him up against the rail at the edge of the balcony and is about to slip her hands under his shirt, but Sylvie calls to them that dinner is ready. Lizzie is probably more flushed than Will is, but Sylvie seems genuinely happy for Will and twinkles at them.

Once they're seated, Lizzie pulls Darcy close and asks if they should invite Sylvie to eat with them. Darcy explains that Sylvie would be appalled by the question because she knows this is a date. Another time--perhaps, but she is very professional and takes food very seriously. Every course is perfect--not too heavy, beautifully presented. Darcy watches Lizzie carefully, almost anxiously, each time a new plate is set in front of her. He waits for her reaction to her first mouthful before he even tries his own food. She can imagine well enough what her face looks like--a year of watching yourself on camera helps with that particular skill. The whole meal is foreplay and Lizzie is as good as her word. If he pushes--she's going to push back. She doesn't suppress any sign of pleasure and happily notes him clenching his fork or the stem of his wine glass a trifle hard. She's glad Sylvie is nearby because experiencing their first time on the dining table might not be much of an improvement over the copier, but part of her would gladly have jumped him back in his office.

The entrée is almost too lovely to eat. Sylvie has painted abstract swirls of color out of different sauces on the plate around a petite filet, asparagus with hollandaise, and some kind of magical potatoes. Sylvie clears the plates when they're finished and orders Lizzie to stay where she is when she moves to help. Lizzie is pleased she still understands that "asseyez-vous" means 'sit down.' Sylvie merely nods when praised and thanked.

Lizzie swallows the last of her wine. She can't tell the warmth the wine has spread through her body, from the warmth she feels every time he looks at her. She doesn't normally like red wine, but this one is light and peppery and doesn't suck all the moisture from her tongue. "I don't believe that was real food." Will tips his head in question and the similarities between him and GiGi are sometimes adorably funny. Lizzie tips toward him, pulling him foward her as if by magnetic force. "That was some kind of black magic. Admit it. Sylvie went to Hogwarts."

"First, she would have attended Beauxbatons. She was raised in Cannes. Second, it would break the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy to tell you if she had. Third, she attended the Cordon Bleu in Paris and I don't think they don't teach... No. I changed my mind. You're right there. It is a kind of magic."

"You read Harry Potter? Don't ever tell Maria Lu unless you want to be her best friend. If you do, let me know and I'll teach you how to French braid hair."

"I already know how." Will twirls the ends of her hair and she can't help reaching for him. Her hands are pretty much operating under their own steam.

She glides her fingers up and down his forearm and it takes her a minute to cotton on--her thoughts are slow and her mind is really elsewhere. "Oh. GiGi. You learned to French braid hair for your little sister?" Lizzie suspects the answer may stop her heart so it's a good thing he doesn't answer. Sylvie returns and asks if they would like dessert, or if they would like a break. Will looks to Lizzie for an answer.

"I think I would prefer to wait." She's achieved the perfect amount of fullness, but isn't so full that she needs to flop on the sofa indecorously.

"Eh, bien. I shall put the mousse in the fridge and take myself off." She bids them a hasty good night and vanishes, but not before winking at Lizzie.

They sit silently, but not awkwardly for a moment. Lizzie props her chin in her hand and stares dreamily at her boyfriend. She has a boyfriend, though he's more than that. She's going to make Lydia tear up that stupid list when she gets home and she's going to film her doing it.

She lets her fingers circle his wrist, but they don't meet. Her hands are too small, or his wrists are too big.

Will scratches at an invisible something on the tablecloth with his free hand. "Your things in are in my room. Did GiGi putting them there without telling you?"

"No. I asked her to put them there."

He freezes for a second, then he's got her out of her chair. They're trying to walk and kiss at the same time and it's kind of like running a three legged race. They're stumbling and laughing, bumping softly against walls.

"Will. Will, wait." She's nervous but they have to be practical for just a moment. She's always been a firm believer that you shouldn't be having sex if you can't talk about it. Not that she's totally comfortable asking about his history and about birth control, but it's necessary. He's actually at ease with her questions, which is good and then it's done.

"I wish I were taller," she says, dragging him down to kiss him.

He murmurs something about not wanting to change her in any way. It's corny, but so sweet because he truly means it. It's more than she can withstand; she grabs his arm and drags him down the hall into his room. Once there, she steps away and does her best imitation of both him and GiGi, cocking her head to the side and considering him.

"What?" He looks around, worried.

"I'm trying to figure out if you're the sort or person who tears wrapping paper off presents with wild abandon, or if you pick off the tape neatly and fold the paper carefully." She lets her eyes drift up and down his body. She's definitely in a ripping sort of mood.

"Elizabeth Bennet, are you suggesting that I unwrap you like a present?" He grasps the hem of her sweater to pull her close. "To answer your question. It depends on how I excited I am about the gift." To her disappointment he lets go, but only to take off his glasses and set them on his dresser. After that there's an explosion of lips and hands. They're both laughing again because they're happy and because it's probably taking longer for them to get each other undressed this way, but mostly because they're happy. Somehow they get each other stripped down to their underwear and make it to the bed without tripping each other. His hands are warm and sure, but they tremble once or twice along her back.

The bed is obviously made for a tall person because Lizzie realizes she'll have to hop up to get on it. Will understand and lifts her up effortlessly. He pauses with the strangest expression on his face--as if he can't believe what's happening is actually happening. It breaks her heart and mends it at the same time. Love is inexplicable.

She says his name and it's enough to crack him out of his reverie. He lifts one of her feet and kisses her ankle. From there he works his way methodically up her body until she reaches her limit and yanks him up so she can kiss him. She has no idea how he is so patient. She's riding two months of intense want and she really can't wait any longer, or she'll be reduced to a pile of ash.

He finds the clasp on the front of her bra and pops it open. They both realize it's the same bra she was wearing in the copy room two months ago. She wants to explain that she didn't chose it on purpose, but it's gone and his hands are exactly where she needs them for now. The ache in her nipples has become so intense that the merest brush of his fingers undoes her. She doesn't have tons of experience with this. She's flying on instinct. She senses that if she simply tells him to hurry up--he'll think too much about what he's doing.

She lets him proceed at his methodical pace and she's not complaining, because he can do things with his tongue that she didn't even know were possible. It's not like she's _never_ had sex before. Well, perhaps that had been something different. Whatever it was, it had been nothing like this. When he kisses his way back up her neck to find her lips, she slips one hand into his boxers. (They're plain pale blue cotton and probably did not cost five thousand dollars unless he got them in exchange for donating to a charity.) She runs her thumb along the jut of his hip and his eyes flutter closed. She drags her nails lightly across his lower abdomen and he presses his lips together. He's gritting his teeth. She is delighted with this new knowledge.

"William Fitzwilliam Darcy, enterprising young CEO, is ticklish!"

"No." Will settles himself between her legs. "I'm not."

She'd call him a liar, but she's too busy kissing him, and pulling him against her, pushing back against him. They've mastered no holds barred kissing and they keep fighting to take control. If this is the only way they ever fight again then they'll both die really, really happy. Eventually they learn to take turns--Lizzie is gentler, but more determined. Will is on a mission to completely devour her until suddenly he slows down and runs his tongue sweetly across her lower lip. That pushes her beyond the limits of restraint. She leaves her hand, the one slipped into his boxers, where it is--against his ass and ghosts the other over his erection--just a pass to see what happens. He chokes on what might have been a groan if it had been allowed to live. She starts to draw back her hand in alarm. He keeps her hand where it is until she relaxes and starts exploring again. His breath comes in hot, jagged exhales against her neck. He sighs and it's almost a moan. She wants to hear him. She wants to make him completely lose it. She dips her hand beneath his waistband and explores the hard, hot length of him.

"Oh, God." He nips her ear lobe. She tightens her grip and he does moan this time, softly, but definitely a moan. "Lizzie, I can't... I want..."

She releases him and he looks mildly disappointed until she pulls his hand between her legs and presses against it. She wants too. She wants him and now he can feel just how much. She pushes her underwear down far enough for him to touch her and he does without hesitation. His fingers slip inside and she's so wet, which she thinks he just mumbled approvingly about, but his face is pressed into her hair. His erection is flush against her hip, grinding against her. It all feels so good and another time she wants to explore all of him. There will be other times, a lot of them, in lots of places, and in all different sorts of ways. But right now she needs him inside of her, not his fingers, or tongue, or anything else.

She tilts his chin up so she can look him in the eye when she says, "I want you."

The corner of his mouth kicks up for a second and he glances at the wall, "Lizzie, do you have any idea how long I've wanted this--you?"

She actually has no idea, but she doesn't want to admit that. "Netherfield?"

He tugs her underwear completely off and shakes his head. They're lying sideways across the bed. He has to break away from her to get a condom out of the drawer behind him. The box is new and that inexplicably thrills Lizzie. Well, perhaps it's not so inexplicable. He's switched from langor to speed and he's back between her legs, naked and sheathed, faster than she would have thought possible.

He presses up against her opening, not pushing inside, not yet, and says, "Lizzie, I love you and I have wanted you since you put your hand in mine at the Gibson wedding."

She'd call him he's a liar, but he slides into her halfway, pulls back and pushes in completely, stretching and filling her and what are words? He searches her face, waiting for her reaction, but he must see the truth there.

"You don't believe me?" He's leaning on his forearms.

She turns her head away. "Will, you said I was--"

"Decent enough." He closes his eyes and grimaces. "I know. Most idiotic thing I've said in my life. I just wanted Bing to leave me alone, but when you stepped up to take my hand, to dance with me, you smiled and I was gone. I set my hand on your waist..." he begins to move again slowly out and then deeply back in, making Lizzie gasp and buck beneath him. "...and I wanted to carry you off somewhere and do this. I thought you could surely tell."

She shakes her head and loops her ankles behind his knees, drawing him in more closely, pushing back with all she has. She's just beginning to ride the crest of something wonderful when he pauses, his jaw is tight, eyes closed. She shifts against him and he pins her hips down.

"Don't," his voice is hoarse. "Don't move. Please."

"Will, we can do it again. It doesn't have to--"

He opens his eyes. "Ms. Bennet, I have certain standards of decorum to uphold. What sort of gentleman would I be if I didn't let a lady go first."

He's so pompous as he says it that she breaks into laughter. His manners are a front in some ways, and in others are not. He does have very high standards. He rolls his hips experimentally before picking up speed. She's back rising over a peak and the crash down the other side is blistering and blinding. She screams something incoherent that maybe was supposed to be his name. It takes her a moment to regain mobility. He looks so pleased with himself it's almost annoying. She pushes him until he breaks too.

It takes quite a while for them to do anything other than float on bliss.

"Lizzie, I must be crushing you." He peels himself away and rolls to his side.

"I didn't notice," but she does suddenly feel like she can breathe deeply without his weight on her. Breathing is overrated.

He brushes her hair away from her face, running his fingers through it. He's carefully working out tangles and looks way too amused.

"What's so funny?"

"Lizzie Bennet." He kisses her forehead and her chin and hovers just over her lips. "You're a screamer."

She wants to tell him that it's only with him, but she's too busy kissing him again, and maybe she shouldn't tell him everything right off the bat. She can't have him wandering around thinking he's some sort of sex god--until she remembers what she put him through and how long he waited and everything she said about him publicly until she understood she'd been wrong about him in every possible way.

She kisses her way to his ear and whispers, "Only with you, Will."

That sets them off again. And again. And again. They pause only for water and to raid the fridge for the chocolate mousse that Sylvie left them.

Lizzie wakes near dawn, curled against his side. They fell asleep on top of the blankets and she's cold where she's not pressed up against him. She manages to manhandle him under the blankets and crawls in beside him. Apparently he sleeps like the dead. She thinks about the keys in their box out on the table. She still has qualms about moving too quickly, but she doesn't mind their existence now because she knows where she wants to be. One more piece of the puzzle that is her life snaps into place. She won't be moving in right away, but she's definitely taking it under consideration. She sleeps with her hand beneath her cheek, otherwise his chest hair tickles her nose, but it's not uncomfortable. Not even a little.


End file.
